


Hero Worship

by GrrraceUnderfire



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Genre: Boners, Character Death, Choose Your Own Ending, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Drabble Sequence, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Love me some Newgan, Male Slash, Pre-Slash, Sharing a Bed, Shyness, Sick Character, Stuttering, Stuttering Peter Newkirk, Tragedy, Two Endings, Wetting, based on the german version, ok it’s slash at the end
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-24 17:01:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 44
Words: 4,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21721369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrrraceUnderfire/pseuds/GrrraceUnderfire
Summary: NEW CHAPTERS 36, 37, 38, 44. I keep adding details.Pure whomp: Newkirk gets very, very, very, very, very sick and can’t seem to get better.  This story has alternate endings, so be warned that you have a choice to make after chapter 40.This was written as a response to the Hogan’s Heroes fanfic.net “Bring Back the Whomp”  challenge issued by one of my favorite betas. But they are very cool to slash at fanfic.net, and this story has mild, foreshadowing-of-slash elements. So it’s posted in full here and a short sweet version called “Hack, Wheeze, Whoop” can be found over there.Also, I've triple-checked and each of the chapters is exactly 100 words, but AO3 is totaling them incorrectly. I can't find the reason for this.Please let me know what you think. Did you prefer one ending over the other? Also, I’m happy to add chapters if anyone feels something is missing.A final note: Newkirk doesn’t say much in this story but when he does he stutters and Kinch and Hogan also mention the stutter. I usually write him this way because this is how his character appears in the German-dubbed version, which I watched before I saw the original version.
Relationships: Robert Hogan/Peter Newkirk
Comments: 34
Kudos: 31





	1. Suddenly Shy

Newkirk needed time alone.

To think. Breathe. Whatnot.

The mission had been exhilarating and terrifying. Colonel Hogan had marched them past Gestapo officers, out the door. Escaped by the skin of their teeth.

Newkirk wanted to hug him. Close.

That was so wrong.

Jostling and bouncing as Schultz drove the truck back to camp, Newkirk glanced at Hogan. Smiling. Cool. Confident.

Hogan caught him looking and winked. Newkirk blushed, studied his hands, suddenly shy.

His feelings were terribly confusing. He couldn’t control his reaction; he crossed his legs to hide it

Then, sneezed sharply.

Newkirk needed time alone. To whatnot.


	2. Hero Worship

Hero worship, Hogan told himself.

He could feel a pair of eyes on him, watching, wondering, burning.

All the men looked up to him, but only two ever looked at him in awe.

Carter and Newkirk. Both young.

So he caught Newkirk’s glance, held it, then threw it back with a wink, like they were playing catch.

Then Newkirk blushed, sniffled and looked down, embarrassed. Caught looking.

Carter never blushed.

A rush of warmth enveloped Hogan. Oh. He spied Peter’s ... response.

A little salute, Newkirk? He grinned. Looked elsewhere.

Hero worship, Hogan repeated.

Then Newkirk sneezed. Hogan frowned. Be well.


	3. In Good Hands

Newkirk wasn’t well.

At roll call, he hacked and wheezed. He sweated and shook, hot and cold all at once. An icy wind tore through him. His lungs tingled as they drew in the frigid air. Coughing started anew.

”Kommandant Klink,” he heard, “My men are suffering. Under the Geneva Prisoner of War Convention...”

Hogan’s voice grew as distant as an echo, reverberating. Gravity won. Shoulder and cheek hit dirt. A din erupted around him.

“Fever.”

“Burning up.”

”Inside, now!”

”Dis-missed!”

”About time.”

Arms lifted him. Not two. Not four. Eight.

He wasn’t well, but he was in good hands.


	4. My Hero

“My quarters.”

”Yes, sir.”

They laid him in the bunk, still bundled in his greatcoat. Wilson burst through the door.

”I saw him crash. How long has he been sick?”

”A few days of sniffles, then this,” LeBeau said anxiously.

”Get some blankets. Coat and uniform off. He’ll overheat.”

”But he’s shaking.”

”That’s what fevers do. It’s normal. Just undress him.”

Kinch and LeBeau took charge. They’d done it before.

Wilson waved Hogan to the head of the bed. “Sit. Hold him up.”

He obeyed, gingerly taking the corporal’s head onto his lap.

Eyes fluttered open. Weak smile. My hero.


	5. Strong Arms

Strong arms held him through the night. Warm hands soothed feverish brow. Gentle fingers feathered cheekbone, bruised and swollen.

”Mum,” he whispered as his fever raged. “Want my mum.”

A low, husky laugh replied, “Papa’s here.” A strong, broad hand rubbed ointment onto his chest as he hacked.

”He’s delirious,” a familiar voice said. “Here, _mon petit frère_ , drink water.”

”Mummy,” he murmured. 

A kiss scratched his forehead. “That’s from Mummy. Now, _chut, gamin_.”

He frowned. Mummy’s not scratchy. His hands flew up to investigate.

Small hands intercepted and tucked his under the blanket.

Strong arms hugged him to sleep.


	6. Human Touch

I didn’t expect to hold him all night. But he was easy in my arms. I didn’t want to shift and wake him.

Comforts are few for a POW. Awful food, cold showers, drafty, musty barracks.

So we help each other. An arm around the shoulder reminds us we are human. 

He’s breathing poorly. Propping him up helps. He breathes better, and everyone else can sleep.

He murmurs and mumbles “Mummy” in his sleep. I stifle a laugh. Some tough guy.

But my heart breaks for him, too. There’s a hole in his spirit.

I clutch him to me. Rest. Shh.


	7. Heartbeat

He woke up to the thump of a heartbeat. Sweaty but cool, he lifted his head and saw a stubbly chin. Then he put his head back down and groaned. Everything hurt.

Hogan stirred and looked at the young man in his arms. “Hey,” he smiled. “You’ve been very sick.” He ran his hand across Newkirk’s shoulder.

Newkirk knew he should feel embarrassed waking up in his CO’s arms, but he was too tired to do anything but lie there.

“You’re looking after me?” he croaked in confusion. Then the coughing began again.

“Yes. Shhh. Just rest,” Hogan said.

Warm. 


	8. Don’t Move

The mission. Was it only last night? Or the night before? He couldn’t tell. He remembered that wink, his embarrassment. Finding a quiet place in the tunnel to jack off before lights out. Relief.

Now he was in Hogan’s strong arms, breathing him in, feeling protected, safe. Don’t go, he thought. Don’t move. Don’t leave me. 

Jinxed. A shrill whistle sounded and Hogan shifted him upward, slid out from beneath him, laid him back down.

”Noooo,” Newkirk mumbled. “Where you goin’?”

”Roll call,” Hogan soothed, petting his hair. “You’ll be OK for a few minutes. That’s my boy. You sleep.”


	9. Roughed Up

He hacks and wheezes and shakes. Alone. He hates alone. Together is better. He needs his mates.

He hears them shuffle outside, the door shutting softly behind them. Murmuring. Dazed, feverish, he hugs his blanket.

Then, commotion. Door bursts open. Shouting, stomping. Office door, flung wide. Rough hands. Yanked to his feet. Frog-marched outside. Shoved into formation. Daybreak, bare feet, night shirt, icy wind. Harsh commands blast his face.

Overwhelmed. Confused.

Rifle butt. Ow.

Where’s Schultz? Newkirk collapses to his knees, helpless. LeBeau and Hogan catch him. From behind, a large field jacket envelops him. Kinch.

Unglued. He starts crying.


	10. Witness

Horror dawns as he arrives in a blur. Stripes. Bare feet. Tousled hair. Pure terror.

They push and shove him. He stumbles. They roughly jerk him to his feet. Icy ground.

 _Steh Gerade, Inselaffe_! 

Smash. He’s down. Shaking. Gasping. Guards retreat, laughing.

We have him, LeBeau and I. Kinch doffs his jacket. LeBeau snugs it around him, crouches beside him. Soothing whispers.

A sob. Newkirk is crying. Yes, my bravest.

Fury seizes me. Don’t break my boy.

On my feet, confronting Klink, I glance back. Newkirk’s crumpled. Scared.

Lower my voice. He needs calm.

Dismissed.

Hustle inside. Make him safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Stand up straight, Island Monkey” — a crude German insult for the British.


	11. Safe Now

“Cruel and inhuman.”

“Sick man.”

“Geneva Convention.”

“Our rights.”

Scooped up. Carried inside. Tucked in.

Trembling. Curled up. Friends crowd around. Someone’s missing. Where’s Hogan? Please?

The crowd parts. It’s him. He kneels. “Shhh,” he says. “You’re safe now. No one'll hurt you.”

My arms, his neck. Face buried. Wet, salty. So scared. Quaking. Gasping. Hold me.

Wilson plows through. “Show’s over! Scram!” Then, “Lay him down, Sir. Crap, he’s bleeding. What the hell were those goons doing?”

The crowd breaks up.

Red cheeks. Ashamed. Weak.

The Gov leans in and dries my tears. No one laughs. 

Safe. Close. Together. 


	12. Angry

He twitches. Blinks.

I’m shouting. Klink never saw me this angry. The Red Cross will hear about this.

Flinches. Cringes.

Gazes past me as LeBeau cradles Newkirk.

Concern? Yes. For, Newkirk, or his own hide?

“Dis-missed.” Klink pivots away

The boys hustle Newkirk to safety. I signal Wilson across the yard, then dash inside.

Back in bed, unhinged, bleeding, shaking.

Why didn’t I protect him?

I gather him, hold tight. Tears and blood soak my neck, collar, shoulder.

Shh, shh. Please don’t cry.

Big gash where they bashed him, scared him to death.

Dry cheeks, dab wound. Curse myself.


	13. The Kommandant

_The Englander. I've never seen him so weak, so vulnerable. Or Hogan so enraged._

I summon Langenscheidt to my office. 

"Bring your men in line," he orders.

"M-m-my men?" Langenscheidt stutters. "I had no authority over them, Sir. Sergeant Schultz just began train..."

"You have authority now. You will train them. They cannot drag a sick prisoner out of bed or the protecting powers will destroy us. Make them understand that."

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant. They came here from the Eastern Front. They are accustomed to Russian prisoners."

"That is no excuse!" Klink shouts. Then softly, “How is the Englander? Find out."


	14. Sting

"Bastards."

The word penetrates the haze. Hogan never talks that way. Does now.

Wilson stitches a gash over my eye where a rifle butt slammed hard. Hogan hovers, LeBeau fusses, Carter and Kinch mill about protectively.

My mates are all with me. I'm not scared now. But I feel weak. Nauseated. The sting of Wilson's alcohol pad hits me right in the gut and I lurch to one side, throwing up.

I can’t cry again. I won’t cry. I’m tough. That’s my job.

Thank God my mates are here to take care of me. I can show them I’m strong.


	15. Nausea

“Flu,” Wilson explains. LeBeau cleans me. Carter mops the floor. Hogan’s ready to kill. Kinch tears away with instructions.

“Say what you like about Schultz, he’d never put up with those guards. What kind of SOB yanks a boy from his sickbed?” Hogan’s ranting. He’s scared for me. That scares me.

“Filthy Boche,” LeBeau snarls.

“Nobody leaves him after this. Someone stays with him at all times,” Hogan orders. He spies me. “Hey, it’s OK,” he soothes.

“Don’t yell,” I plead. “T-too loud.” My stomach lurches again. LeBeau holds my head while I puke.

Sorry lads. You cleaned for nothing.


	16. Brave

Brave. I am brave. I was crying and scared but that was shock. It wasn’t really me because I am brave.

I’m all stitched up. Kinch smiles down. “That’s Newkirk, tough as nails.” I’m grateful. He knows I don’t break.

”Good man,” Hogan says, patting my shoulder. Not boy. Man. 

I’m settling down. I smile back. No tears. No puke. No Krauts yanking me around and smashing me with a rifle. 

Hogan leans in, cups a hand around my cheek. “Hey, you’re OK. Kinch, can you sit with him?”

”Yes, Sir.”

”You’re in good hands, Newkirk.” I watch him go.


	17. Hum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter mentions Newkirk’s stutter indirectly. (Kinch hints at it.) In the series as shown on German TV, Newkirk’s voice is dubbed with a pronounced stutter. Thank you Missy the Least for mentioning that this was worth a note.

I can’t breathe lying flat. Kinch holds me up. I want the Colonel, but can’t say so. I want Louis, but he’s making broth.

Kinch always calms me. 

“You can modulate yourself, Pete,” he told me once as I ranted. “Like a radio. Adjust one thing -- amplitude, frequency, or phase—while keeping your other signal components constant. You’ll settle down and we'll understand your words.”

I’m not sure what he means, but it sounds wise. Frequency hums, like a heartbeat. I press my ear to his chest, eyes closed, listening.

Kinch always gets the message. He holds me tighter.


	18. Cool Drink

“Do you need to put him down, Kinch?”

”He’s light, Sir. I can hold him. He breathes better this way.”

Cool hand brushes my forehead.

”God, he’s burning up,” Hogan says. “Let’s get some water into him.”

”Newkirk, open up a little. That's it, champ. Colonel has a drink for you.”

I taste sweetness, then cold, wet relief.

”Good boy,” Hogan says. “There’s some sugar in it for strength. Taste good?” 

I try to say yes. It comes out “uhhhh.” 

I try to open my eyes. Heavy. 

He takes my hand.

Squeezes, releases. 

\- No.

Takes my hand again. 

“I’m here.” 


	19. Wonder Drug

Hacking. Wheezing. Cannot catch my breath. Kinch holds me up. My mates gather around, terrified.

“Flu. Asthma too,” Wilson says. “Did you know?”

“Of course not. Asthma’s not in his records,” Hogan replies. His voice shakes. He’s scared for me.

“Epinephrine works wonders.” Wilson fills a syringe, tightens a tourniquet. It hurts. He dabs the crook of my elbow with rubbing alcohol, that sharp smell. The needle stings. If I wasn’t already gasping, I’d complain.

But the wheezing eases. Everyone looks relieved. I’m coughing, but not struggling.

Hogan sits behind me, grips tight. “I’ve got the next shift,” he says. 


	20. Langenscheidt's Report

“Pardon me, Herr Oberst.” I knocked with trepidation.

“Yes, Langenscheidt, what is it?” More weary than irritable.

“You asked me to find out how the Englander was.”

“Yes, well? Hurry up about it, Langenscheidt. I’m a busy man.”

“He’s very ill, Sir.”

“Everyone saw that, Langenscheidt. Have you nothing more to report?”

“The medic, Wilson, says it’s influenza. And asthma.”

Klink looked up. Influenza was contagious. Asthma was serious.

“How is he being tended? Does he need the hospital?”

“Colonel Hogan is caring for him personally, Sir.”

Klink snorted. Yes, that was Hogan. So soft with his men. So popular.


	21. Seizure

Fever. Hot. Cold. Shaking. Sweating.

He’s so sick. He can’t stay still.

“LeBeau,” I stage-whisper. I don’t want to alarm anyone.

He’s at the door, alert. Newkirk is his best friend. They’ve cared for each other through thick and thin.

He’s at the bedside, his hand on Newkirk’s forehead. He shakes his head. He disapproves of illness.

“His fever's very high,” he says. Suddenly Newkirk is seizing in my arms. LeBeau leaps into the barracks, calling “Get Wilson! Now!”

“The guards won’t let us out,” Carter says flatly. He’s right.

“We’ve got a tunnel,” LeBeau commands. “Use it. Run, Carter.”


	22. Embarrassed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a few places in this and following chapters Newkirk will stutter and/or Hogan will mention his stutter. As previously noted, the show as shown on German TV is dubbed into German and Newkirk has a very strong stutter.

I wake in dampness. Wilson’s touching me, checking pulse points. Neck, wrist, elbow, groin.

“He’s coming around. Oh... Colonel, we’ll need to clean him and change the bed.”

Hogan feels below my waist. “How’d that happen?”

“Losing control occurs with seizures,” Wilson shrugged. “Could happen to anyone.”

“LeBeau,” Hogan beckoned. “Help me change him?”

LeBeau’s hands comfort me. “ _D’accord, mon colonel_.” Together they remove blankets, nightshirt, pants.

Exhausted, embarrassed, wet, exposed. Cool sheet lands. Relief.

Try to explain, can’t get it out. 

“Thhh... Thhh.... Thhh... Ssss... Sorry. I don’t... j-j-j-just... ac-ac-accident...”

“Hush. I know. Shhh, rest. Warm water, Louis?”

“Coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "D'accord" means of course.


	23. Clamber

Clean and dry. All tucked in. Cheeks blazing hot. Body so, so cold. Bunk quaking.

“He’s shaking. What can we do?” That’s Hogan.

“Body heat. But I don't want you all sick.” Wilson.

“I never get sick.”

“With due respect, that’s ridiculous, Colonel. But if you want to help, climb in beside him. It’s too cold in here and you’ll warm him up.”

He clambers over me and stretches out, wrapping arms around me from behind. Pulls closer. Wilson shakes out a blanket. It puffs the air as it settles on us, making me shiver. I settle into the embrace.


	24. Fever Breaks

Fever breaks in the night. We’re drenched again.

I climb out and roll Newkirk onto his back. He’s sleeping sweetly. Skin glistening from beads of sweat. Chest gurgling. Wilson says that proves crud is moving. Good sign.

Quietly, I slip into my pajamas, hang my uniform to dry. I wake LeBeau.

“Does Peter have another nightshirt?”

“Not again.”

“No, not that. The fever broke.”

He sits, stretches, shakes off the night. He’d do anything for Newkirk.

“That’s the only clean one. Ah, _mon pauvre bébé_.”

“I have extra pajamas, then. C’mon, help me.”

Newkirk yawns as we change him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Mon pauvre bébé" is "my poor baby." I think LeBeau would say this as long as he was sure Newkirk didn't have the strength to punch him.


	25. Tender is the Night

He wants me now. The Colonel climbs up to sleep. I stay by Pierre’s side, clasping his hand.

We’ve been through many illnesses and pulled through, but this time was scary. He’s my heart and my home here in camp. He’s _mon Fr_ _érot_ , my little brother, whether he likes it or not.

He whispers, “Where’s the Gov?”

“Sleeping, _mon pote_. Don’t worry. He’s here.”

”Stay with me?” he yawns. “Don’t leave.”

He’s tough, but he can’t slay dragons alone. He leans on me. The Colonel, _il l’adule_ like the tender papa he never had.

I kiss his forehead. " _Fais dodo_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Mon pote" is buddy. “Il l’adule” means LeBeau believes Newkirk idolizes (adulates) Hogan. "Fais dodo" is French baby-talk for "go to sleep."


	26. Ragdoll

Sun breaks through the cracks in ceiling, dappling the barracks walls.

“You’re looking better,” Wilson tells me.

Am I? Because I feel like a ragdoll. I can hardly lift a limb.

I muster a smile. Cheek is my stock in trade. “Krauts can’t keep me down, mate.”

Hogan, at Wilson’s side, isn’t buying it. He saw me vulnerable. Crying. Weak.

“Twenty-four hours rest before you even attempt to get up,” Wilson insists.

He departs. LeBeau pats my chest, says he’ll be back with soup.

Hogan sits beside me, looks me over. “I’ll read to you,” he says.

I’d like that.


	27. Story Time

A dogeared copy of Tom Sawyer appears. His own. Had I read it? Well, no. I’m British.

It was a boisterous performance. When he reached the part about whitewashing the fence, he delivered it with such conviction that I roared. Blimey, Colonel Hogan WAS Tom Sawyer, conning everyone whose path he crossed.

“If he hadn't run out of whitewash he would have bankrupted every boy in the village.” He wiped his wet eyes.

I laughed until I wheezed, and wheezed until I whooped. Oh no. Soon Wilson was back to poke another shot in my arm. 

It was worth it.


	28. Laughing

It’s a relief he’s laughing, even if it does trigger another asthma attack.

Pierre rests his head on my lap as the shot works. Hogan paces and apologizes repeatedly.

“I wouldn’t have made him laugh if I’d known,” he tells Wilson.

“Now you know,” Wilson grumbles. “You better?” he asks Newkirk.

”Yes, Aunt Polly,” Newkirk replies. He grins. Private joke? Hogan snickers. Wilson grunts and goes.

I stroke his head like he’s my little boy and it’s naptime. His eyes droop.

Hogan sits beside him on the bunk, eyes burning with hope — and worry. He rubs Pierre’s chest silently, smiling.


	29. Out of Bed

Up, up. We’ll get you shaved. First, sit at the table during rollcall. You’ll be OK alone.

\- Not sure. So tired. Can’t budge. Please, Louis, let me rest.

Nope. Five days is enough. You’ll feel lousy until you start moving.

\- Right, Colonel. Ssssorry, Sir. I’ll try.

It’s OK. Put your head down. We’ll be back.

A cold gust jolts me awake. He drapes his arm over my back, slides onto the bench.

“How’s my boy doing?” Colonel Hogan tugs me closer. “Louis, got some coffee for Newkirk?”

“Tea, please?” I lean into his touch, head aching. So hot.


	30. Spinning

"Outside. Just for a little while. It’ll do you good."

\- "It’s too cold, Carter. I don’t want to go."

All I want to do is curl up.

"You’ll have to stand roll call soon, Newkirk. Might as well get some practice. Come on."

\- "Kinch, please, no. Tomorrow. I don’t feel good."

He reaches up to my bunk, hand across my forehead. “Shit,” he mumbles. “Carter, get Wilson.”

I’m dizzy. Even lying down, the world's spinning.

Wilson’s here. “Come down, Newkirk. I can’t examine you up there.”

I don’t want to sit, but I must. And down I tumble.


	31. Taste of Copper

Throbbing pain. Taste of cooper. Why am I on the floor?

Lick my lip. Blood. Try to sit. Kinch pushes me down.

“We’ll move you in a minute. Let Wilson check you first, buddy.”

Kinch says buddy to calm me down.

\- “My head hurts.”

“I’ll bet it does." Kinch has sympathy.

"News flash, Newkirk: You can’t fly.” Wilson, none. 

\- “Shut up.”

“Feisty. That’s a good sign. Fever’s way up. OK, follow my finger, Newkirk.”

\- “Follow it where?” I hate him, I really do.

Suddenly I lurch and throw up. Sorry, Wilson.

“I hate you,” he says.

Good.


	32. Separation Anxiety

Kinch hauls me back into Hogan’s office. Where’s the Colonel? I’ve not seen him.

“You sure he won’t mind, Kinch?” He’s helping with my nightshirt. I can’t sit up.

“It’s fine. He’ll want you here.”

“Where is he?” I try not to sound as small as I feel. I know it’s childish, but I want him right now. Louis, too. Where is Louis? And where’d Carter go?

They come barreling through the door. So relieved. I try to be casual, but when Colonel Hogan grabs my hand, I gulp back a sob.

“You’re gonna be fine.”

Yes, now I will.


	33. A Shaken Colonel

“He’s gonna have some black eye, boy.”

A big sigh. “Yes, Carter. He landed hard. How did it happen exactly, Kinch?"

“Wilson asked him to come down, he sat up, and he went toppling. He said he was dizzy.”

“This flu’s knocked him for a loop.” It was Hogan, tucking the blankets up under my chin, patting me. I couldn’t keep my eyes open, but I found his hand and latched on.

“Yes, Sir. I can sit with him, Colonel. Baker’s covering for me.”

Hogan breathed deeply, trembling. “It’s all right, Kinch. I’ve got him. But stay. Talk to me.”


	34. Frail

Frail? Not Newkirk. Till now.

Swollen lip. Bruised cheekbone. Raging fever. Pained whimper. 

Hogan hovers. I hate to tell him what London wants.

Head in hand. Exhausted. Long vigil. 

My hand, his shoulder. Strength. Squeezes his eyes shut.

”I... yeah... we meet Foxglove tonight. 0030 hours. Just me.” Takes Newkirk’s hand. Caresses it, presses it to his cheek. 

Looks up. Bloodshot eyes. 

“Carter or LeBeau should go too, Sir.”

“Carter. Newkirk needs LeBeau.”

”Sleep, Sir. We need you rested. Peter most of all.”

He nods, climbs over Newkirk, wraps himself around him. Sleep claims him.

Frail? Not Hogan. Till now.


	35. Alone Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hogan is referring to Newkirk’s stutter in the paragraph 2.

Just us. Darkness. My arms envelop him. 

Miss his voice. Th-th-th. Ffffff. J-j-j. Always trying hard, pushing through obstacles, dauntless. 

Miss his smile. His jokes. His laugh.

Whisper as I hold him. “You’re going to get better.. I’ve got you.”

Stroke his cheek. Still soft one full day after a shave. Not for long. Is he almost 23? 24? I should know this.

Caress his ribs. He sighs. 

Rub his belly. He breathes deeply.

My hands itch to explore lower, but no. Not like this.

Someday.

I bury my face in his neck, breathe him in, let tears escape.

Live. 


	36. Snug and Dry

Lying beside me, he embraces me from behind.

Strong arms cradle me. Hot breath steams my neck.

Rubs ribs and flanks and belly. Soft touch, hard on. Not completely up; too feverish. Enough for a happy feeling.

Hands fondle my hips, rest. I try to will them lower. Touch me tenderly.

He pushes against me, snug. He presses stiffly, whispers to me.

Strong hands caress me. Warm rain dampens my neck. He’s crying.

A rap at the door. Kinch. The mission. The Colonel climbs over me. He checks my front, makes sure I'm dry, lets his hand linger.


	37. Hand Off

“Get LeBeau,” he softly commands. “He can’t be alone.”

“Already done,” Kinch replies. He nodded at what the Colonel was doing. “Is he wet, Sir? Do we need to...”

Hogan pulls his hand away. “Uh, no. He’s dry. I was checking to make sure.”

“Have to go wee,” I whisper hoarsely. “Now. Now. Hurry.”

Scramble. LeBeau jumps in with a bedpan before I’m soaked. Hogan aims my stream. “There you go.” He shakes my prick off and covers me as LeBeau removes the waste.

I sigh, relieved; blush, embarrassed.

Hogan leans down, brushes lips to forehead, claims me as his, looks back as he leaves.


	38. Mon Pote

Kinch settles me into LeBeau’s hold before chasing after Hogan into the tunnel.

These arms have held me though illnesses, injuries, fear. We fit just right.

”He’ll be back soon,” Louis whispers, chin on my head. He knows. 

Then he sings.

_Fais dodo, Colas mon p'tit frère  
Fais dodo, t'auras du lolo  
Maman est en haut  
Qui fait des gâteaux  
Papa est en bas  
Qui fait du chocolat  
Fait dodo Colas mon p'tit frère  
Fait dodo, t'auras du lolo._

My eyes flutter, but I laugh. Of course, even Papa is cooking. My cheeks burn and I shake with cold. Louis is warmth.


	39. Rendevous

I canter through dark, damp woods, icy leaves squelching under my feet. Foxglove awaits.

In the barracks, Newkirk waits too. I left LeBeau at his side. He’s out flat. Needs support to eat, drink, move, breathe, pee.

Farmhouse. Smoke rising from chimney. 

We meet, exchange codes. He has maps—munitions depots. 

And a jar of honey. “For your man. The sick one.” 

Grateful, I gulp. Now back to camp, to my boy. 

LeBeau has him, rasping and terribly hot.

I show him the jar. LeBeau nods, distracted.

“He’s worse,” he says.

”I’ll take him. Go rest.” I lay beside Peter.


	40. Spasm

Coughing. Ribs throbbing. Head pounding. 

Shaking. Freezing cold. Flaming hot.

Spinning. Room wobbling. Belly flopping.

Trembling. Scared. Alone. Scared alone.

Shifting. Lifting up. Holding close.

Whispering. You’re OK. Don’t cry, Peter. I’m here, soldier.

Wheezing. Breath whistling. Air hitching.

Heaving. Belly emptying. Bitter tasting.

Cursing. Damn it. OK, OK.

Shouting. Help me. LeBeau? Carter?

Banging. Door swinging. Boots tromping.

Take him. Help me up.

Pulling. Sitting. Dizzy.

Puking.

Inhaling.

Wheezing.

Whooping.

Pissing.

Mummy, I’m wet.

Louis? Gov? Kinch? Carter?

Haze.

Louis, kiss me. I’m leaving.

Colonel? Hold me. Tighter.

My best mates. Tell Mavis I love her.

Dark.

Mummy?

Bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important: SKIP NEXT CHAPTER IF YOU DON'T LIKE SAD ENDINGS!


	41. Hero (Original Ending)

Urine. Vomit. Mucus. Sorrow.

And tears. Not just Peter’s. All of ours.

I never thought I’d see Colonel Hogan cry. But when Wilson pulled the sheet over Newkirk’s face, well.

He loved him. I knew that. It was in every gesture, every touch. Peter loved him back. Idolized him.

But Peter’s choking, gasping, wracking end. Hogan sobbed, totaled.

”Not like this. Not like this. He survived risks and bullets and Gestapo. The flu can’t kill him. It can’t.”

It did. 

We all loved Peter. Our scamp. Our scoundrel. Our spirit. Little brother. Son. Lover.

Bad boy. Good man.

Hogan’s hero.


	42. No You’re Not (Alternate Ending)

Whap. Whack. Thump. Whomp,

Why are they hitting me? Ow, my back.

“Upright. Clear his lungs. He’s choking on vomit.” Wilson.

\- Cough. Spit. Spew.

“It’s OK. Spit. We've got you, Peter.” Oh, Colonel. All over you.

\- I’m, I’m sorry.

” _Chut, chut, mon pote_.”

\- Why’m I wet? Oh no.

My hand goes there. Sobbing.

”Shh, I know you’re wet. It’s no big deal. Don’t cry, you'll wheeze. Don’t worry, we’re taking care of you.”

I’ve never seen the Gov plead. His hand’s on my cheek, his face is wet.

He kisses my forehead, relieved.

I surrender to love.


	43. Baptized

Colonel Hogan is washing me and it feels like a baptism.

The way he looks at me, tenderly touches me everywhere, I feel safe.

Louis is helping him. Love, care, protection. They make me better, make my heart pure and true.

Kinch stands by, removing damp clothes and sheets. Carter brings clean ones.

I’m flushing with fever, blushing with embarrassment.

“Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” the Gov says, bathing me. “Don’t be embarrassed, Baby.” He’s not embarrassed. I’m his.

Louis smiles and strokes my face. “ _Chut, chut, Frerot.”_ I melt.

I can breathe. I’m not scared. My heroes surround me. I am loved.


	44. Surrender

Alone together. Morning.

”You gave us quite a scare.” He’s petting me. 

”Where my mates?” I’m breathless. Words come slowly.

”Everyone’s outside. It’s exercise time.” I hear cheerful, muffled voices as slender fingers comb my hair. He leans over me, caresses my jaw and neck.

”I can’t lose you.” Our eyes lock. His thumb strokes my lips. I answer with tiny licks of my tongue. Each touch arouses me.

”Don’t lose me,” I answer, lip trembling. Stay, stay, stay, I silently plead. His mouth finds mine. Our tongues tangle.

Suddenly I gasp. I’m hard, and his hand is resting there. He pulls away, embarrassed. “Peter... I’m sorry. You’re sick. We can’t...”

He’s right. I’m weak. With feverish smile, I pull his collar, tug him closer. Kiss his cheek. “Stay, Sir,” I say.

He takes me onto his lap. I feel his bulge beneath my ribs and smile.Strong arms wrap around me. I am all his. “We have the rest of forever,” he whispers. “But right now, you rest. I’m not going anywhere.” 

”Robert. Robert.” I smile, shut my eyes, listen to his heart beat, feel his caress, and I drift to sleep, dreaming of making love with my man.


End file.
